


topsy turvy and upside down

by hawksonfire



Series: Mandatory Fun Day [13]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of brainwashing, Pining, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Clint Barton, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 05:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/pseuds/hawksonfire
Summary: What if, after Clint Barton was left for dead by his own brother, he didn't become Ronin and instead became someone else? This is the story about the Winter Soldiers, and how they became two.





	topsy turvy and upside down

**Author's Note:**

> OOF this was so much fun to write and I gotta admit, it's fun to write for MFD again. I missed this. I hope y'all enjoy!

**Clint**

It’s when he’s lying in a ditch, bleeding out through a hole in his shoulder that they get him. He thinks they’re paramedics at first, because they shine a light in his eyes and ask him a bunch of questions that make his head hurt. He’s awake enough to know that they should’ve at least given him something for the pain by now, but his head is foggy with blood loss and shock and he passes out before he can think on it further. 

When he comes to, he’s in a dank stone room with a steel door and no windows. He’s on a shitty metal cot pushed up against the wall, his shoulder is bandaged expertly - although it still hurts like a motherfucker - and he’s alone. He doesn’t call out, because he’s not an idiot - in fact, he barely even moves once he wakes up. He keeps his breathing slow and his heart rate down, because he’s had enough practice hiding from his father and then Barney and then Swordsman to be able to do it with little effort.

He stays like that for hours, ignoring the tiny gurgles coming from his stomach that grow progressively louder and louder as time passes, well used to going without food. Granted, usually not when he’s been shot and left for dead and unconscious for who knows how long, but he’ll survive. He always does. He’s mostly just happy he didn’t die.

Clint’s eyes fly open and he sits up, grunting, as the door slides open silently, revealing one man standing there. There’s a mask covering his face and some sort of silver sleeve covering his arm, and Clint must be more out of it than he thought, because he’s so entranced watching the light play off of it that he doesn’t manage to hold in the yelp of pain when the man grabs his bad arm.

He stops for only a moment, before loosening his grip a fraction and steering Clint through the door and down the hallway. The man in the mask brings him to a room filled with people - some in lab coats, some carrying the biggest guns Clint’s ever seen - and pushes him down onto a lab table. 

Clint’s too busy looking around to realize he should fight back, and by the time he realizes that he’s being strapped to the table, it’s too late for him to move away. “What is your name?” Some guy in a lab coat asks, holding a clipboard.

“Eat me, fuckface,” Clint spits. He’s starting to get an idea of what kind of people these are, and that’s the ‘Clint doesn’t want to be anywhere near them’ kind of people. 

“Hm,” Lab Coat Guy says, and he puts his clipboard down, then takes a couple steps forward until he’s towering over Clint’s prone body. “You’re mouthy.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you what I can do with my mouth,” Clint grins, hoping there’s still blood on his teeth.

“No matter,” Lab Coat Guy says like Clint didn’t even speak. “We’ll get you free of that in no time. Prepare the serum.”

Clint stubbornly remains quiet for as long as he can, but when they inject him with something that feels like lava burning through his veins, his screams ring through the room until they shove a gag in his mouth. 

He’s not so happy to be alive anymore.

~~

“Again.” There’s no room for argument in that tone, so he does it again. And again, and again, until his fingers are bloody and his chest is heaving, and then he keeps going. “Enough.”

Two stops, lowering the bow to his side. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing the targets at the end of the lane. One of his arrows is half a millimetre off from dead centre, and he snarls, frustrated at himself. “The fifty-seventh arrow is off,” he says, holding out his arm. There’s a beat of silence, and then he’s holding in a pained groan as his pinkie is snapped.

“Again,” the Winter Soldier says, stepping back. His face is blank as he watches Two raise the bow, stance still perfect despite the broken pinkie. 

He starts again.

~~

“Target moving in your direction,” crackles over the radio. 

“Copy.” Two sucks in a breath through his nose, taking a moment to feel the breeze on his face... He fires. The arrow flies straight and true, through the car window and into the throat of the target. He watches as the Winter Soldier comes up behind the car on his motorcycle, finishes the mission and grabs the arrow as he leaves. 

“You should switch to a gun,” the Soldier says blankly as they’re climbing onto his bike. 

“I’m better with a bow,” Two says, wrapping his arms around the Soldier’s torso. He grits his teeth against a shiver and instinctively pushes closer to the Soldier’s warmth. An image flashes across his mind - him, as a child, huddling close to an older boy.

He stiffens and the Soldier pauses in checking over the bike. “What’s wrong?” It’s gruff, like the Soldier’s not sure why he’s asking.

“I am... malfunctioning,” Two says slowly. “There was a memory.”

“We do not have memories,” the Soldier says, continuing to check over the bike. “We are the Winter Soldier, we are the Fist of Hydra. We shape this and the coming century with our work. We do not have memories, because we do not need to remember.”

“But there was a memory,” Two insists, thinking about the boy in his mind. 

The Soldier whips around and slaps him across the face. “Forget it,” he hisses, locking eyes with Two, “Remembering is not worth what they will do to make you forget.” Their eye contact is broken when Two licks at his split lip and the Soldier’s gaze darts to the motion of his tongue, then back up again, meeting his gaze blankly.

“How do you know?” Two asks as the Soldier turns back around. His face is warm, although he does not know why.

“There was a girl,” the Soldier says, so soft Two can barely hear him. “She had brown hair, like mine, and I’m sitting behind her, twisting it into a pattern.”

“Who was she?”

The Soldier’s arm recalibrates. “I don’t know,” he says, starting up the bike, “And when I asked, they put me in the Chair until I didn’t remember her anymore.”

“But it was a harmless memory,” Two says, confused. “It did not impede the mission in any way.”

“We are the Winter Soldier. We are the Fist of Hydra. We do not have memories,” the Soldier says, trailing off near the end. “If memories cause that much pain...” He shakes his head, and the bike starts to move. “They aren’t worth the trouble.”

When they get back to base and report on their mission, neither the Soldier nor Two say anything about their memories, but the Soldier gets dragged to the Chair anyway. He doesn’t put up a fight, but they still strap him in and jam the mouthguard into his mouth, and when Two tries to leave to clean his gear, Handler Jones stops him with a hand on his chest. “Stay,” he growls, free handing inching towards the stun gun on his belt. Two stays.

He stays through the Soldier’s muffled screams, he stays through the Soldier’s confused questions once he’s free of the Chair, he stays through the Strike team manhandling him into the cryo-chamber, and he stays, eyes locked with the Soldier’s as the glass freezes over and his eyes don’t quite go blank, the last vestiges of pain and agony and anger trapped in them until he’s thawed out for their next mission.

And as Two’s given his next assignment - training the newest class of Red Room graduates - it might be the first time he ever feels something he thinks might be rage. 

~~

He’s aware of the other person in the room with him even as he fires the last arrow in the quiver at his side, hitting the target dead-center and splitting the arrow that was already there. It’s been a while since Two last saw the Soldier, the turn of the century has come and gone, and yet the other man hasn’t changed at all. 

“I know you,” the Soldier says quietly, but firmly. He looks Two over, gaze sticking at Two’s biceps and naked torso as Two wipes himself down with a towel.

“Yes.” Two looks the Soldier up and down, gaze lingering on his thighs and chest to determine if the Soldier’s carrying any weapons - not that he needs to, much like Two himself, the Soldier is a weapon. 

“I broke your pinkie once,” the Soldier says absently. 

“Four times,” Two corrects, collecting the arrow shards from the target. “To help me get better.”

“Soldier.” Both Two and the Soldier snap to attention as Handler Pierce walks into the room, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sweat. “You have one more mission.” He turns to leave and when they both go to follow him, he stops. “Not you,” he says to Two, “You’re to stay here.”

Two nods and watches them leave, catching the Soldier’s gaze accidentally as he walks away. They stare at each other until the Soldier disappears around a corner, and Two can’t shake the feeling that he’s never going to see the Soldier again. 

He’s right, in a way.

~~

Two’s in the room with the Chair, along with several lab techs and three men with guns and cattle prods - all of them twitchy and staring at him from the corner of his eye, flinching whenever he so much as blinks. He’s sure to move twice as much, just to watch them jump. “What about him?” One of the lab techs ask. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“We’ll take him with us,” Gunman #3 says decisively, like he’s in charge. “He’s a good weapon to have, and with all the shit he’s done over the years, we can use him as leverage if we get caught.” He marches over to where Two is standing against the wall and gestures towards the door. “Get moving,” he says. 

Two doesn’t move for a moment longer, staring the man down, and is just about to open the door when the building shakes, dust and plaster raining down from the ceiling. “What the fuck was that?” One of the techs asks, eyes wide and terror clear in her voice.

“Shit,” Gunman #2 breathes, face white. “He’s here.”

“There’s no way he made it all the way back here on his own,” Gunman #3 scoffs. “He’s been zapped so many times I’m surprised he can tell his own ass from a grenade.” He laughs, like it’s funny, and then his laughter chokes off into a gurgle and his hands are scrabbling at Two’s wrist as he holds the gunman up against the wall. 

The room goes dead silent, both other gunman frozen in shock. Two of the lab techs drop into a dead faint, and the other three just freeze, shrinking in on themselves and trying to not attract his attention. “Can you tell the difference?” Two asks, his voice low and deadly.

Gunman #3 whimpers and pisses himself, visibly shaking in Two’s grasp. “W-what?” He asks, high-pitched.

“Can you,” Two enunciates, “tell the difference, between your own ass and a grenade?”

“Yes?” Gunman #3 tries, confused. 

“Good,” Two says, “Hold this.” He unpins a grenade and jams it between Gunman #3’s legs, making sure his thighs are closed tight around it before opening his fist and letting him fall to the ground in a slump. 

A split second after he hits the floor, the door to the room explodes off its hinges and the other two gunmen are dead, bullet holes through the center of their foreheads. The Soldier stalks through the door, one arm aiming a gun directly at Two’s face. “I just killed two senior handlers,” he bites out. “What are you going to do about it?”

Two glances at the corpses, then at the third body by his feet, that one still shaking. Looking up, his gaze meets the Soldier’s calmly and he says, “Tell you that we should probably grab as much currency as we can get our hands on before we leave.” An unknown expression flashes across the Soldier’s face, and he lowers the gun.

“What about them?” He asks, gesturing to the techs. 

Two tilts his head, evaluating them. “That one was always the one to handle your arm,” he says, nodding at the female tech. “The others are... disposable.”

“Tie them up, we’ll let the police have them,” the Soldier says, already tossing him rope. Two does as instructed, binding the remaining techs and dragging the gunman over as well, even though he’s not quite sure why they’re leaving them alive. They’ve never left survivors before. 

“How are you injured?” Two looks at the Soldier, really looks at him, noticing for the first time the awkward way the Soldier is holding his right arm at his side. 

“They sent me after Captain America,” the Soldier grits out as Two takes hold of his arm gently. “They were putting helicarriers into the sky that would have killed everyone who was, is, or will be a threat to Hydra. He was trying to stop them. I was trying to stop him.”

He sucks in a breath as Two pops his shoulder back into place, rolling the joint and nodding in thanks. “Did you kill him?” Two asks, downloading everything off the computers and setting them to self-destruct.

“I couldn’t,” the Soldier huffs, frustrated. “I knew him. He knew me. Called me ‘Bucky’.”

“What the fuck kinda name is that?” Two asks, then he stops. “You... didn’t complete the mission.”

The Soldier stops as well, staring at him. “I don’t... I don’t think what they had us doing all these years was right. I don’t think we were doing good like they said we were,” he says hesitantly. 

Two shakes his head. Thinking about that makes his head hurt, and they need to get out of here. “We need to go,” he says. “If Hydra truly has fallen, then we will be hunted. We need money, we need papers, and then we need to disappear.”

“What about her?” The Soldier jerks his head towards the lab tech they’re hauling with them. She’s crumpled into a ball on the floor, shaking and staring up at them with tear tracks on her cheeks. 

Two crouches in front of her. “Is there a manual for his arm?”

She nods. “On- on the computer. You would have gotten it when you downloaded everything.”

“Then I guess we don’t need you anymore,” Two says, and he hauls her over to the other techs and ties her up as well. “Let’s go.” The Soldier follows him out of the building, making two stops along the way, one to grab the toolkit for his arm and a duffel bag to put their weapons into, and one to change their clothes from tac gear to civilian clothes. Two slings the duffel over his shoulder, pausing at the threshold of the building.

“Last chance,” the Soldier says quietly. Two takes a breath and shakes his head, unsure as to why he’s unsure. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the Soldier slips a hand into his and squeezes gently. 

Somehow, that bolsters Two’s courage, and he takes one final breath before stepping over the threshold and then, together, the Winter Soldiers disappear into the city, never to be captive again.

~~

Six months later, when Two has just started getting used to calling the Soldier ‘James’ and they’ve just settled into a small apartment building in Bed-Stuy, they have to leave again. Two thinks he saw one of their old handlers on his trip to the grocery store. He’s not sure, but the possibility is enough for James to get twitchy. So they leave. 

They head to Europe because James keeps getting flashes of memory of people speaking Parisian French, but once they get there he refuses to even go near any of the big cities, so they stay in the little towns, moving around every so often to stay invisible. James gets new memories nearly every day, and after the first time he slams his head against the wall as he’s thrashing, Two starts holding him still so he doesn’t hurt himself. After a while, it stops being because of the memories and starts being because they have both been deprived of human contact of the good sort for decades, and they’re not about to let anyone near them that they don’t trust.

The first time Two gets a memory back - because while they didn’t use the Chair as often on him as they did on James, they still used it - he’s cursing up a storm trying to plug their shitty toaster into the shitty outlet in their shitty kitchen, and it shocks him. It’s not a big shock, but it still makes his body lock up and he blanks out. 

When he opens his eyes again, James is holding him immobile, murmuring nonsense and leaning over him until James’ hair brushes his face. Two’s eyes dart to James’ mouth, then back up to his eyes, and he says, “What’s the damage?”

James releases him and leans back against their shitty kitchen counters. “You broke a plate,” he says wryly, corner of his mouth twitching up.

Two props himself up on his elbows, confused. “Then why were you holding me still?”

“Because you were thrashing around, you could’ve hurt yourself,” James says, eyebrows furrowing.

“I’d heal,” Two says offhandedly, cracking his neck. 

“You shouldn’t unnecessarily hurt yourself,” James chides softly, his voice making Two’s stomach clench. 

“I shouldn’t unnecessarily hurt _ you_,” Two corrects. 

James sighs. “If we’re protecting each other, can we agree not to unnecessarily hurt ourselves _ or _ each other?”

Two cocks his head. “These terms are acceptable.” Then he spits on his hand and holds it out for James to shake.

“What the fuck,” James says flatly, staring at his hand. “I’m not touching that.”

“I have no idea why I did that,” Two says, blinking. He and James stare at each other for a moment longer, then burst out laughing. Two stops laughing before James does, face turned towards him in awe. 

“I think that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh,” James says, looking up and going still when he sees Two staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Two answers, reaching out and tucking a stray piece of hair behind James’ ear, “Just never realized how gorgeous you are before now.” A light flush rises to James’ cheeks and he gets up abruptly, leaving Two’s hand hovering in the air.

“We should eat soon,” James says gruffly, turning away. 

Two takes a steadying breath and retracts his hand, tucking the feeling of James’ hair between his fingers into a safe corner of his mind. “What did you have in mind?”

~~

A year after they escaped Hydra, Two is sitting at the kitchen table sharpening his favourite knife, when James walks up beside him and puts a thick paper file on the table in front of him. “What’s this?” Two asks as he flips it open. When he sees the picture at the front of the file, his veins fill with ice and he stops breathing, staring into the defiant face of a teenage Two.

“It’s you,” James says, softly.

Two’s looked at his own face enough times in the mirror to recognize a younger version of it looking back at him - the crooked line of the nose, the left eyelid that droops slightly downward, the freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose... “Where did you find this?” He croaks, his voice hoarse.

“When you downloaded everything off of the computer at the old base, this came with it. I’ve been looking for it for a while. It doesn’t seem fair that I know who I was and you don’t.” James gingerly places his hand on top of Two’s clenched fist. “If you want me to burn it or tear it up or flush it down the toilet, just say the word. This is _ your _ past, you decide what to do with it.”

Two stares at the file, his eyes returning to his younger self’s face, no matter how many times he tries to look away. He stares at it for ten minutes, then twenty, then an hour, and all along, James stays at his side, steady in the storm of Two’s thoughts.

“I think...” Two starts.

“Yeah?” James prompts when he doesn’t continue. 

“I think I want to know who I was,” Two says, and as he says it he knows it’s true. James smiles down at him gently and stands up to leave, but before he knows what he’s doing, Two’s hand darts out and grabs hold of James’ sleeve. “Stay?” He asks, and James nods and sits back down. Two takes a deep breath, tightens his hold on James’ hand so much he thinks he hears a bone crack, and flips to the next page.

~~

The two of them stand outside the dilapidated old farmhouse, staring at it silently. “Doesn’t look like much,” James remarks. 

“Looked worse when I was a kid,” Clint says bitterly. 

“We’ve got some work to do if we want to make this habitable by first snow,” James says, taking Clint’s hand and squeezing once.

“Best get started then,” Clint sighs, and it still takes him an extra ten minutes to gather up enough courage to open the front door. James waits with him, holding his hand the entire time.

~~

Clint’s not sure how he survived without coffee. He’s not sure how he survived without a lot of things. Coffee and James top the list, and as much as Clint loves coffee, it still comes in second place. It’s too warm for a fire, but not yet hot enough to go without a blanket, so Clint spends his mornings wrapped in a blanket until James brings him his first mug of the day, then unwraps the blanket and rewraps it around the both of them.

They’ve been free for nearly a year and eleven months now, but Clint’s been wrestling with his feelings for James far longer than that. He knows there’s something there from the way James looks at him sometimes, but he doesn’t want to push in case he’s wrong, and the little voices sneering at the back of his head are right.

Clint scoffs, jostling James slightly. Even twenty years of torture and brainwashing isn’t enough to knock his dad’s voice out of his head. “You’re thinking too hard,” James says sleepily, looking up from where he’s pillowed on Clint’s chest. “Stop it."

“We both know thinking has never been my strong suit,” Clint returns, grinning wryly. James pinches him on the stomach with the metal hand, leaving a bruise. “Hey! That hurt!”

“Want me to kiss it better?” James teases, and Clint laughs to cover the desperate bolt of want that shot through him at James’ words. His sex drive came back with a vengeance about eight months into their freedom, and Clint’s grown newly fond of his hands since then. He’s still got trust issues, no surprise there, and it wouldn’t be fair to James to bring someone home to satisfy the urge when Clint can do it just as well himself with a bottle of lube and a half-hour alone.

“Too late, it’s already gone,” Clint sighs, watching as the bruise fades away. He’s not entirely sure what Hydra did to him in those first few months, but he knows that he heals faster, is stronger and faster than a regular man but not as strong or as fast as James, and his eyesight is better than perfect. Better than James’, even. He can see the veins on a fly’s wing from half a mile out, and he knows he couldn’t see that good in the circus.

“Next time,” James says, a hint of promise in his words, and Clint is _ this _ close to just leaning down and kissing him _ finally_, when the oven timer goes off. James grimaces and rolls off him, then heads into the kitchen. Clint hears him turn on the radio and closes his eyes, wrapping the blanket around him to conserve warmth until James gets back.

The sound of a plate shattering has him up and in the kitchen before he even realizes what he’s doing, pulling James into his arms once he sees his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter. Clint rubs soothingly at his back as he listens to the radio announcer speak. “The man who bombed the signing of the Sokovia Accords in Vienna, Austria, has been identified as the Winter Soldier, one James Buchanan Barnes. Citizens are advised to not approach Barnes, as he is likely unstable and definitely dangerous. Do not attempt -” He’s cut off when Clint turns off the radio, focusing on calming James down.

“We need to go to Vienna,” James croaks hoarsely. 

Clint blinks. “James, they think you’re responsible for that,” he says gently, “Getting there by plane is impossible, and any other way will take too long.”

“Getting _ me _ there by plane is impossible,” James says, looking up at Clint pleadingly. 

Clint’s shaking his head before James even finishes talking. “No. No way. I’m not leaving you here alone for who knows how long it’ll take me to get there and back, not to mention we have no idea why someone is trying to draw you out, _ and _ -”

“Please, Clint,” James pleads. He takes a breath and then, “Steve was there. _ Natalia_. We have to know if they’re okay.”

“If you think they wouldn’t publicize the shit out of the Winter Soldier killing an Avenger, then maybe all that brainwashing hasn’t worn off yet,” Clint scoffs. James goes white and pulls away, and Clint winces. “James, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

“If you won’t go to Vienna,” James says quietly, “I will.”

“You’ll get caught,” Clint says tiredly.

“I don’t care,” James spits, whirling on him. “He is my best friend, and she was like a _ daughter _ to us, Clint, and you’re just okay with not knowing if they’re dead or alive? How can you just be okay with that?”

“Fine,” Clint spits. He storms out of the kitchen and up the stairs, into their bedroom and starts throwing clothes into a duffel bag. James follows him, staring as he packs. “You want me to go to Vienna? I’ll go to fucking Vienna. But when I’m right, and they’re okay, and I end up not coming back because someone flags my face because I kind of look like that guy who killed that other guy eight years ago, you better come break me out of fucking supermax.”

He yanks the zipper on the duffel closed and storms back downstairs, jamming his feet into his boots, grabbing the truck keys from the stand by the door and then he leaves. He only looks back once, as he’s halfway down the driveway in their shitty truck, and it’s to see James’ face, pale white and terrified, in the upstairs window. It nearly makes him turn back, but Clint’s nothing if not a stubborn bastard, so he doesn’t.

His anger at James’ seeming lack of care for his own life carries him all the way onto the plane, but once he’s sitting down and able to breathe, he’s nearly sick with the force of his regret. When the plane takes off, he is sick, barely managing to make it to the bathroom before he’s emptying his guts into the toilet.

The guilt follows him all through the flight, through checking into the fleabag motel he’s booked a room at, through the short walk to the bomb site where first responders and reporters are still crowded around the scene. It follows him even as he’s turning off the street into a side road, even as he’s confronted by an unfamiliar face with a familiar stance. She peels away from the wall and stands in front of him, arms at her sides loosely, giving the appearance of relaxation. “Widow,” Clint greets. 

“Soldier,” she says, and that’s how Clint knows it’s really her. There were only thirty-six people who knew that there were actually two Winter Soldiers, and of those thirty-six, twenty-nine are dead by his or James’ hand, two died of natural causes, two were killed in unrelated incidents, and the remaining three are him, James, and the woman standing in front of him.

“This wasn’t us,” Clint says instead of the thousand things he wants to say to her, all in the voice of someone he no longer is. 

She cocks her head. “Why should I trust you?”

Despite himself, Clint scoffs. “Did we teach you nothing? Trust no one,” he says.

“Least of all you,” she finishes, and it’s only because Clint taught her that he sees her thigh tense in preparation for a fight. 

“You could not beat me last time,” Clint says tiredly, “What has changed?”

“I’m older now, Soldat,” she says, and then, smiling, “And I have friends.” That’s all the warning Clint gets before he’s twisting out of the way of a shield, bright red, white and blue stripes making it an easy target to hit out of the air as it comes back towards him. It hits the ground with a clang, and Clint plants a foot on top of it to stop the tall blond man from moving forward.

“You’re shorter than I thought you’d be,” Clint remarks absently, looking Steve Rogers in the face. “Taller than he said you were, though. Ah well, memories fade, I suppose.” With a wry grin, he flips the shield off the ground into his hands and studies it. “Hm.” He flips it once more and then offers it, target up, back to Rogers, who takes it warily. 

“Who are you?” Rogers asks, trying for casual and missing by a mile. 

“A friend of a friend,” Clint replies, and he hears the Widow’s scoff from behind him. 

The corner of Rogers’ mouth ticks up sadly. “I don’t have many of those these days,” he says, staring at the shield. 

“I’d wager you have more than you think,” Clint says, and then he gets down on his knees and laces his hands behind his head. 

“You’re surrendering?” Rogers says in disbelief. “Just like that?”

“I’m surrendering,” Clint agrees. “For now. Gotta be home for dinner, or the wife’ll have me on dish duty for a month.” He gives a pleasant smile when Rogers searches his face, evidently trying to decide whether or not to believe him before giving up with a scoff and turning away, presumably to make a phone call. 

The Widow comes around and crouches in front of him, eyeing him speculatively. “Where is he?” She asks quietly, too quietly for Rogers to hear.

“What name are you going by these days?” Clint asks instead of answering her. “You were Natalia when I knew you, but I’ve heard Natalie and Natasha since then.” 

“Natasha,” she answers. “How about you? Or are you still going by Two?”

“M’name’s Clint,” he says, grinning at her small intake of shock, “Figured I would rediscover myself once Hydra fell. Learned a few new tricks, wanna see?” Without waiting for an answer, he drops his hands, kicks her feet out from under her, and scales the nearest building. He blows her a kiss from the roof, then vanishes into the city before she even makes it off the ground. Pulling the small burner phone out of his pocket, he dials a number and holds his breath as it rings. 

“Hi baby, how you been? Everything alright up north?” James’ voice soothes Clint’s frazzled nerves and he releases a breath. 

“Everything’s peachy up here, sweetheart, I’ve caught two whole fish so far!” Clint’s voice is perky and grating, and he hates it. 

“Mmm, I’m sure you have. They any good?” 

“Two of the biggest, healthiest fish you ever seen, cupcake,” Clint says, “Gave me a real fight too. Nearly lost em both, but I managed to reel them in.”

“And you’re alright?” James asks. 

“Healthy as a horse. We’re still expecting company this week, right?”

“What day did they say they were coming again?” James asks, a thread of worry running through his voice. 

“Might be today, might be tomorrow,” Clint responds, “But definitely in the next couple days.”

James sighs, “I’ll get the place ready then. Should I go all out, do you think?”

Clint swings around a wall and shimmies down a drainpipe, phone pinned between his ear and shoulder, drainpipe clenched between his thighs, and says, “Nah, they’re not worth it. Just give everything a good cleaning, tidy the place of clutter, that sort of thing.” 

James’s voice turns warm and honey-like, dripping down Clint’s spine as he says, “Alright, honey. I’ll see you in a few days, okay? Be safe. I love you.”

“Love you too, cupcake,” Clint says, just to hear James’ little snort before he hangs up. “Oh, and baby?”

“Yeah?” James says, confused now. This isn’t a part of the code.

“I’m sorry for what I said before I left,” Clint says softly, “It was wrong of me and I shouldn’t have said it.”

James sucks in a breath quietly, then, “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it. All is forgiven, doll.”

“Thanks, cupcake,” Clint breathes, and then he hangs up. He takes a minute to enjoy the echo of James’ laugh in his ear, and then he takes the sim card out of the phone, snaps it in half, snaps the phone in half for good measure, picks the lock on his motel room window, and flops onto the bed, the buzzing of guilt that’s been in his ear for the last twelve hours finally abated.

“Goodnight, baby,” he says softly, and even though it’s barely five o’clock, he passes out on the bed, snoring faintly within moments.

~~

He’s woken who knows how long later to the sound of someone trying to pick the lock on his door. He barely has time to pull the gun from the side table and aim it at the door before it opens and someone tumbles inside. “You can lower the gun now, honey,” James’ voice says wryly, and Clint lets his arm slump to his side, hand going limp.

“I could’ve shot you,” he says tiredly.

James snorts, flopping down on the bed next to him. They’re not touching, but Clint can feel the heat of James’ body on his arm and it’s maddening. “I heal quick,” he says. “You really found them?”

“Saw them with my own two eyes,” Clint says, closing said eyes. “Natalia goes by Natasha now, and she’s just as capable as she was, more so even.”

“And Steve?” James’ voice sounds small, and Clint can’t help it - he rolls over, opening his eyes and comes nose to nose with James. He opens his arms and James doesn’t hesitate before pushing himself into them.

“Healthy as a horse,” Clint assures him. Tension drains out of James’ shoulders and he slumps in Clint’s arms. “He’s pretty sad, though,” Clint continues, “Thinks he doesn’t have any friends.”

“He’s an idiot,” James mutters, muffled into Clint’s chest, “He’s got that whole damn team behind him.” 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, “But having someone who’s known you since you were a kid, who knows you inside and out, who you can trust with your life, knowing that person has your back?” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing like that, and Steve doesn’t have anyone like that. Neither do you.”

“I have you,” James objects, pushing off Clint’s chest to glare at him. 

“It’s not the same,” Clint says, “I didn’t know you before the Soldier. Not that that’s a bad thing, but you can’t tell me you don’t miss having him around.”

“I don’t remember having him around,” James grumbles, turning away. 

“Doesn’t mean you can’t miss him,” Clint says gently. James doesn’t answer, and Clint closes his eyes again, thinking that’s done. A surprise weight on his stomach makes his eyes fly open, forcing a grunt out of him, and he looks up to see James staring at him with a determined look on his face. “What are you -” 

He’s cut off when James leans down and kisses him, square on the mouth. Clint freezes in shock, eyes wide, but James doesn’t let up until he starts responding. By the time James pulls away, they’re both flushed and panting, and Clint is staring at him wide-eyed. “Glad I found a way to shut you up,” James says, but the flush on his cheeks betrays how affected he is.

“What was that for?” Clint asks, hand drifting to his lips unconsciously.

James shrugs self-consciously, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

“And what page is that?” Clint asks, because he needs to buy the whole damn book.

“The one where we stop dancing around this thing we have like we have been for the last year,” James says, “The one where I don’t have to convince you that I’m not going to leave you for Steve. The one where we can be us, without worrying about what other people think.”

“You thought I thought you were going to leave me for Steve?” Clint asks incredulously. “As if you could get rid of me that easily,” he scoffs.

James looks up at Clint through his eyelashes - an impressive feat, since he’s still perched on Clint’s stomach and Clint’s lying down - shock clear on his face. “How long?” He asks quietly.

“Since I could put a name to it? Maybe eight months,” Clint answers. “Since before that? Probably when you broke my pinkie when I missed a shot during my training.”

James blinks. “I was actively torturing you.”

Clint shrugs. “I never said it was healthy. And you were being tortured yourself, and you never caused more pain than you had to. Even patched me up afterwards.” 

James shakes his head. “We are so fucked up.”

“Could be worse,” Clint says quietly, “We could not be a ‘we’.”

James softens as he looks at him, then leans forward again. “Yeah. That would be much worse.” His breath washes over Clint’s face, and then he kisses him again, keeping it gentle. Clint can’t help the whine that escapes him when James pulls away, and it makes him flush. 

He rolls over, flipping them so that he’s on top of James, pinning him down. “When we get out of here, I’m going to destroy you,” Clint promises, feeling a wave of heat wash over him at the matching answering wave of desire he sees in James’ eyes. 

And then the door bursts open and Clint is pulled off of James and thrown across the room. The back of his skull hits the wall with a sickening _ crack _ and the last thing he sees before passing out is James being held back by a figure dressed in blue. Clint tries in vain to summon the willpower to tell James that he’s alright, but before he can say anything, his eyes roll back in his head and everything goes black.

~~

He regains consciousness a few seconds later, only to be met with Steve’s furious face inches away from his, as well as Steve’s arm pinning him to the wall. “Rogers,” he croaks. “Long time no see.”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Steve snarls furiously, and Clint shrugs.

“Killing your best friend’s boyfriend probably isn’t the best way to go about reintroducing yourself to him,” he says dryly.

“Boyfriend?” Steve sputters, turning to look at James.

“Why else would he have been on top of me, Steve?” James says, exasperated. Steve blinks and releases Clint, letting him drop to the floor.

“Son of a bitch, Steve,” Clint wheezes, hand to his chest. “I think you bruised some of my ribs.”

“You said you were going to destroy him,” Steve says, still confused.

“He meant destroy me with his _ dick_, Steve. Congratulations,” James says, rolling his eyes and helping Clint to his feet. “You just stopped me from getting laid for the first time in nearly a century.”

The look on Steve’s face is so confused that Clint can’t help but laugh, which makes his ribs hurt. “Oh fuck, that was gold,” Clint says, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Glad I amuse you,” Steve says dryly. His face softens then, and he looks at James as says, “It’s good to see you, Buck.”

“I prefer James now,” James says quietly, and Steve nods. 

“Course, whatever you need. So, what now?”

Clint and James exchange a look. “What do you mean, what now?” James says, confused. 

“Well, are you two coming with me so we can get started on clearing your names, or am I going with you back to wherever you were before this whole thing went down? What’s the plan?” Steve asks, looking between them like they have any idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

“Steve,” James starts, but Steve cuts him off.

“I’m not leaving you again, B-James,” he says firmly, “I just got you back.”

“I don’t trust that we won’t be separated and dropped into some deep dark hole as soon as the government gets its grubby little paws on us,” Clint says, “So we may as well take him back home.”

“I thought you said that place was compromised,” James complains. “I spent a good three hours making sure there wasn’t a trace of us left.”

“Well, that’s because you’re a good housewife,” Clint teases, and James socks him in the shoulder. “Ow.”

“I’ll have to tell Nat where I’m going,” Steve says. “You met her already, back in the alley.”

Clint scoffs. “Met her? Pal, we trained her.”

Steve blinks. “She doesn’t talk about that.”

“Guess you’ll have to take Clint’s word for it,” James shrugs, wrapping an arm around Clint’s shoulders. “Are we leaving soon or what?” Steve pulls out his phone to make a call and James nuzzles Clint’s cheek.

Clint takes a minute to settle himself into the idea of having two houseguests, of not being on the run for much longer, of being able to touch and hold and kiss James whenever he feels like it. “I think I might love you,” he says quietly, and James blinks at him before smiling softly. 

“I think I might love you too, honey,” he says just as softly, and Clint leans in to press his lips against James’, somehow knowing, in his bones, that they’re going to be okay. He won’t accept anything less, not for James.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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